


i know you wanna go to heaven, but you're human tonight.

by thrives



Series: you know the two of us are just young gods. [1]
Category: Heathers (1988)
Genre: F/M, Oral Sex, Smut, i love u if u click on this, it's part of series of snippets that i feel like writing abt, mostly canon, side effects may include murder, so yeahhhh, straight up fucking bc they're horny teens, this isn't exactly a oneshot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-17 03:46:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14824656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thrives/pseuds/thrives
Summary: He makes her think of lazy and indolent and slow and unhurried; hot and slick and fast and panting; iron-hot kisses on necks and between thighs; fingers sticky with saliva and lips swollen; danger and delight and darkness; deep and passionate and emotional and whispered sweet nothings into the crooks of elbows and cusps of ears; say it, say it, to be young and in lust and for it to be enough.





	i know you wanna go to heaven, but you're human tonight.

**Author's Note:**

> so i've been obsessed with heathers (the movie) since i came out of the womb and i felt like it was time i fed myself (bc no one else will ugh) so yeah here's my crackhead fanfic pls enjoy (also comments keep a girl off the streets xoxo) (also i know literally nothing abt croquet sorry if it's all wrong)

 

**[ I KNOW YOU WANNA GO TO HEAVEN, BUT YOU'RE HUMAN TONIGHT. ]**

 

 

 

Neon gleaming lurid red and lilac blue; veins splayed across a porcelain wrist; newspaper clippings; bedsheets on the floor; a tight blue skirt and cherry lip gloss; glowy and choking hips on hips on hips; it's somnambulistic teenage mania, baby! A radio crackles. Marlboro desktop favorites—smoke and you might die—but this is our generation's motto now: _death is sexy, death is trendy, let's kill ourselves, drink drink drink smoke smoke smoke sex sex sex_.

 

Love is God is Chaos is Killing is LICK IT UP BABY LICK IT UP—

 

 

* * *

 

 

Veronica Sawyer isn't particularly religious _._ She attends church with her parents and crosses her ankles and folds her hands together demurely, every inch the pure, angelic virgin queen of Westerberg—but while the priest is speaking, she stares at her feet or examines her nails or, to put it in simpler terms, doesn't pay a single  _fucking_ ounce of attention to his dry, jaw-droppingly boring sermon. She smokes and she drinks and she occasionally fucks around. She's no saint and she's never believed in god and then, like a miracle or maybe a curse—both, she thinks dimly, _both_ —there's _Jason Dean_.

He has a sulky, sensuous mouth and freshly-fucked dark hair and this crooked, _holy_ grin that makes every pressure point on her body tingle with a warm awareness that she is so, so, _so_  fuckingattracted to him. He's lean but graceful, his movements striding and rangy, every inch the panther stalking its prey; an earring looped through one ear like some wayward pirate; large hands and long, beautiful fingers and knife-like cheekbones. He wears a long black trenchcoat _all_ the damn time, hands in his pockets and headphones clamped over his ears, smiling at some slick redhead with that dreamy, faraway look she has seen so many times in the mirror. He's so clearly _hers_.

 His voice is low and raspy, the voice of a smoker and the voice of a sinner and a voice that makes her want to do  _bad_ things.

"You a Heather?" he asks. She can't telling if he's teasing or not, but his eyes are glinting with amusement, the purest gold-and-green-flecked brown. The angle of his jaw is fatal.

"No," she says sweetly, tugging at her skirt. "I'm a Veronica. Sawyer."

When Heather sweeps over, smelling of cheap Chanel and cocaine, blond curls flying and signature red bow coming undone, Veronica looks at him and says, very casually, _so_ offhandedly, "See you later."

His reply is nothing short of auspicious, his smile pure sex. " _Definitely_."

 

 

* * *

 

 

He's like, if every foolish daydream of bad boys with wicked smiles and motorcycles and cigarette-smoke-lungs were melded together with sharp wit and intelligence and great taste in literature. He drinks whiskey straight from the bottle and listens to Bach— _Bach_ —and she's dizzy around him, she's religious, she's never felt like this, like she wants to throw caution to the wind and get fucked against a wall with those hands on her and strip on the beach with those eyes on her and _feel_   _feel feel_ him. She wants to feel the hard warmth of his body pressing into hers like he can't get enough, like she's oxygen and he's a man drowning, wants to feel him inside her, wants to feel him come undone at her touch, _wants wants wants_ everything his terrifying beauty promises her.

 He makes her think of lazy and indolent and slow and unhurried; hot and slick and fast and panting; iron-hot kisses on necks and between thighs; fingers sticky with saliva and lips swollen; danger and delight and darkness; deep and passionate and emotional and whispered sweet nothings into the crooks of elbows and cusps of ears; _say it, say it, to be young and in lust and for it to be enough_.

She's swimming in blues and greens.

He's such a fucking pretty boy. She knows it'll end in flames—she's always liked the taste of smoke.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Strip croquet?" he says, scratching his head. "Haven't heard that one before."

She lowers her lashes and looks up at him. "We can always play something else—"

"No," he says quickly. "I'm down."

She grins, tucking her hair behind one ear and gripping her mallet with both hands. "You're _going_ down, you mean." He looks at her with such intensity that she shivers, then murmurs, "I hope so."

She's winning, of course. She and Betty used to spend most afternoons out in the yard, playing (or pretending to play) croquet. But for a newbie, he's not bad at all. Halfway through the game, he's shucked off his shoes, socks, trenchcoat, and undershirt. He isn't built, exactly, but she can see the outline of his muscles rippling under marble skin. He runs a wayward hand through his hair, slightly out of breath, and winks at her. It's _erotic_.

She has her shoes and stockings off. The night air is damp and warm; her blouse clings to her back and her skirt is too short, too tight. Veronica swings and the ball slides smoothly under the hoop.

"Suck on that," she says jubilantly, and turns to JD, who is— _completely_ naked. Her traitorous eyes make their way down his torso and past the wiry trail of hair and the deep v-line of his hips to— _oh._ She tries not to blush. Scoops her hair off the back of her neck and laughs, a little breathlessly. He's hard, and he's looking at her like he wants nothing more than to _devour_.

So, naturally, she starts to strip.

 She shimmies out of her skirt and pulls her skirt over her head, leaving her dressed in the lacy white bra and cotton panties she wore to the party. Goosebumps trace their way down her arms and she stands in the middle of their yard and tugs off her underwear. She's wet, she knows she is, aching for his touch.

He moves forward at the same time that she does, and it's clumsy and it's perfect and they collide like stars, burning with sweet desire. He kisses her hungrily, forcefully, his tongue in her mouth and his teeth on her tongue and it feels like _heaven_ , like something she's always been to afraid to touch, and she kisses him back with equal force, demanding, begging for _more more more_. She pulls away and touches his face, aware of the growing ache between her legs and the length of him pressing into her, goading her. "You're beautiful," he says reverently into her neck, then bites and sucks his way down to her breasts, not even bothering to unhook her bra. He just pushes it down and palms her nipples, then takes one into his mouth.

They're on the grass now, and she's straddling his lap, hands locked in his hair as he scrapes his teeth against her nipple and she moans. " _Fuck._ "

His fingers make their way lower and lower until they're brushing against her wet, hot cunt, and she jerks back at the touch, then leans into it. He moves slowly at first, fingers circling and circling and pressing and fingering and never _quite_ —and then he grasps her thighs with both hands and pulls her hips upward until his mouth is on her, tongue flicking over her clit until she pants and moans and begs. One hand grasps her breast and the other pins her down as he works her cunt with his mouth and his fingers, sliding one, two into her, gently fucking her, sucking on her clit.

She comes in a hot burst, sparks shattering her vision. Before she even has a moment to gather her frayed nerves, JD is pulling her up, his hair messy and falling into his eyes, lips wet and eyes sparkling, his earring crooked and his smile predatory. "Condom?" she asks. He nods.

"Come on," he coaxes, and prods at her entrance, cock throbbing. Every part of her is achingly sensitive and worn-out and thoroughly fucked, but she opens her legs a little wider anyway.

He slides in with ease and they lie there for a moment. He fills her so completely that a pang of pleasure shudders down her spine. Then he thrusts, slowly, sloppily, grinning as she whines and tries to move on him. "Please," she says into his mouth, nails digging into his shoulders. He begins to move faster and faster, hitting a sweet spot deep inside her that makes her scream. He claps a warm, calloused hand over her mouth and lets her suck on his fingers. 

She feels him come. Feels him groan and sag on top of her. Feels him tug her to his chest and kiss her forehead.

Feels like she's  _fucked_. Literally and metaphorically.

Feels like she might be in love. With him? With his tongue? She doesn't wanna know.

"What a night," she breathes. He leans down to kiss her. "What a _life_."

 

  

* * *

 

 

 Killing Heather Chandler is terrifying and satisfying and not nearly as traumatic as society would have it seem and it makes Veronica wonder if it's JD who created this darkness and bloodlust inside her—or if it was always there, simmering beneath the surface.

It's cinematic. Heather drinks the blue poison and crashes through her glass coffee table, pink bathrobe glittering with diamonds, eyes white and rolled back. They forge a suicide note. She feels like maybe things will get better now that the monster of Westerberg High is seemingly gone. (Spoiler: they don't.)

She's a  _murderer._ She's an accomplice. She knows there's something not quite right about him. He's fractured. He's murderous.

They're playing a dangerous game. They're playing God, pretending they get to choose who lives or dies, pretending that murder is okay as long as it's for the right reasons. They're just two messed-up kids that the world decided to fuck over. Fucked-up and fucked-up do not cancel out and equate normal. Together, she and JD are fatal. But she knows him—god, does she know him—and she knows what he wouldn't do to hurt her, and she knows why he thinks there's no salvation at the end of the tunnel, and she knows the nights spent with him are the closest to heaven she'll ever be. They won't be teenage gods forever. Sooner or later, all gods fall.

Even Bonnie and Clyde had to die.

But the way she feels when she's with him—that burning, pulsating feeling of  _yes, yes, yes, our love is god, our love is god_ —she couldn't ever give that up. It terrifies her. He terrifies her. She terrifies herself.

It terrifies her, how quickly she grows to love him.

 

 


End file.
